Mr. Grey and the Spirit from the Sky

by A. J. Matthews

  "More likely." She took a sachet of sweetener from the pot on the table and twisted it back and forth between her fingers. "I hope I'll get more warning before it happens next time."

  "I'll teach you how to defend yourself, lover," he said seriously. "The paranormal is like any other world. You get bad neighborhoods as well as good. It's as well to be prepared."

  Her lips twitched. "You mean, like, use Teddy Roosevelt's advice? 'Talk softly and carry a big stick?'"

  "Yeppers. I'll give you as big a stick as you can handle," he said, squeezing her hand.

  She winked saucily and squeezed right back. "Why, I'll hold you to that—in more ways than one!"

  * * * *

  Within a quarter hour Jodi came back with their order, the heavenly scent of the food mingling with the aroma of coffee. She placed the huge platters in front of them and stepped back with a smile. "Enjoy!"

  "We will!" Martin said, picking up his spoon and dipping it in the soup. "Jodi? Doug told me about the battle fought here."

  "Oh, he told you that?" She chuckled. "Yeah, it was in my Granddaddy Mel's time. He'd just opened the business, and it really put this place on the map. We got folks coming in from all over the state and beyond. I remember him saying the shoot-out was the best publicity anyone could wish for." She blushed. "Sorry, that sounds so bad these days, but that was then, y' know? Here, we got a souvenir of it."

  She took down a framed photograph hanging above the window a few feet away and brought it over to Martin, who took it and…

  Went cold. Hot damn! That was a good job! Me and Ellis played it real sweet. We'll be rolling in dough when we get the booze back to the city. They'll never catch us! Up here in the boonies, what county cop could take a city boy? Joe'll be pleased with me now! Maybe he'll let me run somethin' of my own? Smell and taste that coffee. Check out the cute ass on that waitress! If we weren't pushed for time I'd…

  A sudden screech of tires outside—slamming doors. Turning, looking out the windows to see black coats, fedoras, stern square-jawed faces—guns! Fuck! G-men!

  "Sir? Are you okay?"

  The image faded from Martin's mind, leaving him staring at the photograph. It showed people long-dead, standing in front of the diner in stiff, artificial poses; alongside them were wheeled trolleys bearing covered corpses. The whole scene had the air of a successful big-game hunt. Underneath was the neatly typed tag 'Aftermath of the shoot-out, Mel's Diner, September 3, 1929.'

  He looked up at Claudia, who sat staring at him with her fork halfway to her lips.

  "Sorry, it's not a pleasant scene to look at," he mumbled.

  "Yeah, guess you're right." Jodi looked contrite. "Sorry, I should've realized. Reckon I got used to seeing it up there." She took it from him and hung it back in place.

  Within the physical form of the photograph a boundary had weakened. It wavered, stretched, and a gap was briefly created. Something emerged at speed, a ripple of possibility which expanded from the photograph and sped through the diner. It took shape and form, became a personality within a time period un-measurable to human clocks. Its energy was weak, but it was driven by a desire, a hunger which had once been human. A sense of loss and outrage manifested itself, emotions which metamorphosed into deep anger.

  It hovered in a place outside of time, and looked at the cluster of bright human souls gathered in the diner. One in particular it identified as an enemy; the one who had taken hold of the photograph and released it shone with a power that hurt to look upon. That human had been caught unawares by the psychic surge from the photo, but the spirit knew if it remained it had little time before his power detected its presence—and it knew it could not resist when it did so. It needed time to gather its resources, to fight back, but at least two allies were close to hand.

  From its vantage point, the photograph was a square of blackness as deep as a pit. Shrill voices gibbered and howled from within that darkness, pleading for release, promising much if they could only be freed. Trepidation gripped the spirit; that blackness held old, old terrors—but it also held friends. It reached out, touched the blackness, pushed against the barrier where the gap had been—and again it parted briefly and a spirit was released.

  It began to gather shape, and the first spirit reached out again.

  But the power within the human was beginning to spread out, as he recovered and took stock of his surroundings on the physical and metaphysical planes. The spirit cried out in frustration, a cry echoed by the one still trapped within the darkness. It drew back and looked at the spirit it had freed. It was still forming, but there was no more time to spare. "Stop! Do that later. We gotta go!"

  Borne on unearthly wings, the two dark spirits fled, seeking a safer clime.

  * * * *

  Martin felt uneasy all the way back to the resort. Claudia kept glancing at him as she drove, but she refrained from asking questions. He was grateful; he was fresh out of easy answers to what he'd felt at the diner.

  As they got out of the car a horrible scream resounded from the direction of the main resort building. Echoes sounded along the slope, a macabre counterpoint to the cry which settled into a kind of moaning, bubbling misery.

  "What the hell was that?" Claudia asked, white-faced.

  Chapter Four

  Unnerved they walked quickly towards the reception area, senses heightened for any further alarms. As they neared the entrance a man rushed around the corner of the building and hurled himself through the doors without as much as a glance at them. Buffeted, Martin hung onto the door then followed at a slower pace, Claudia behind him.

  The man leaned on the reception desk, panting hard. "Okay, Dad, okay!" Joanne Ashby was at the desk, punching a three digit number into the phone with one finger as she patted his hand. "Chill out, I've got it now. Get me an ambulance," she said into the phone after a couple of seconds. "It's the Knight's Lodge resort, Gainesville. Yeah, that's the one. Uh-huh." She looked at them as they came up and rolled her eyes theatrically. "No, the guy's shot himself in the foot with a nail gun. No, we can't lay him down and make him comfortable—he's pinned to the floorboard."

  Martin turned his attention to the man, a middle-aged rugged looking guy wearing green overalls. "Can I help? I have first aid training and experience."

  The man looked at him with barely disguised hostility and shook his head furiously. Behind him and unseen, Joanne looked up from the phone and also shook her head in warning.

  Martin raised his hands. "Okay, I only asked."

  Claudia took his arm and shot the other man a hard look. "Let's go see Bruce."

  They headed upstairs to the gallery and met Greg hurrying on the way down. "What happened?" he asked, stopping to peer down at the foreshortened figures below.

  "A man's nailed his foot to a floorboard with a nail gun," Martin told him, still annoyed at having his offer of aid turned down. "I think that's his mate down there."

  "Aw, shit!" Greg rolled his eyes. "Not Dave again!" With this gnomic comment he hurried down to talk to the man.

  "Again?" Martin murmured to Claudia, as he walked the few remaining steps and into the main office and she chuckled.

  Bruce Baker emerged from the small en suite washroom with a towel in his hands. "Hi, guys!" he said. "Did I hear something? What's going on?"

  Claudia repeated the story.

  "Again?" Bruce gritted his teeth and laid the towel aside. "Jesus! Never mind, Greg'll fix it. I just hope they don't have to cut a hole in my Goddamn floor again." He drew himself up, and rubbed his hand over his eyes. "Sorry; that was callous. This place gets you like that after a while. Take a seat, folks. How did things go with you two today?"

  By agreement reached in the car on the way back, they'd decided not to tell Bruce of the events on the drive and the diner. Martin started in on what Claudia called the digest.

  "Not too well. There's little of anything concrete in the newspaper archives. We're concentrating our search to the 1920's and 30's. I have a pretty shrewd
idea the man I saw is from that era, judging by his haircut and the overalls. If we draw a blank, we'll see if we can find and search earlier records." Martin sat back in his chair. "Bruce, I interviewed Joanne and Greg earlier. Maybe I can check a few points with you?"

  "Sure thing," Bruce said, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back to face Martin.

  "When Greg saw this ghost, he said he was alone in the office once you'd left. Yet Joanne told me you returned ten minutes later and came up here to get something, taking no more than a minute to do so. No sooner had you left again than Greg saw the ghost."

  "Yeah?" Bruce scratched his chin and thought this over. "It's quite a while ago, I'm not sure if I did return, or can remember what it was I came for. It was May; we were already getting busy with the opening of the season."

  "If you can remember anything, it would be useful. I'm looking for some kind of action or other event that might have triggered the appearance of the spirit."

  "Nothing springs to mind." Bruce shook his head. "I'll think it over, see if I can remember, but I hold out no promises. What do you intend to do next?"

  "Perhaps you'd allow me to set up my instruments here? I'd like a few operating during the day, some of the more sensitive ones tonight. It's just to record the general atmosphere as a baseline check."

  "Sure." Bruce nodded. "I'll tell Greg." He grinned. "Better tell him to watch what he says in here—don't want anything to come back to haunt him later!"

  * * * *

  Martin and Claudia watched the ambulance depart down the drive. "It seems Dave is accident prone," he said.

  "Nailing his foot twice? I'll say!" she replied with a disbelieving shake of her head before ramming her hands into her pockets and looking around the landscape. The sun was dropping towards the hills to the west, but the valley had soaked up enough of its warmth during the day to take the edge off the chill breeze rolling down from the peaks.

  "Shall we take that walk? I figure we've got an hour before dark."

  "An excellent idea," he said, looping his arm through hers. "Fancy a walk along the lakeshore?"

  "Fine with me."

  They began to stroll down the gentle gradient toward the lake. "It's beautiful country around here," she said, looking up at the surrounding hills and mountains. "Do you have anything like this near where you live?"

  He smiled and shook his head. "No. London has its hills, and the views from Waterloo and the different Commons are nice on a clear day. The Kent and Sussex Downs lie to the south. Now there's a beautiful place," he said, "lots of steep rolling hills and quiet valleys full of woodlands, small farms and orchards."

  She barely heard him. Something made her avoid the words back home when she'd asked the question for fear it would jinx things. As far as she was concerned, wherever Martin lived was home for her. But America was her homeland; she loved it and had never left it—yet. Would he want to set up their home in England? He must have the same kind of attachment too. It would be a wrench for either of them to leave the land of their birth. She chewed her lip. No, it was too early to talk about setting up a home together, even as she knew in her heart that Martin was the love of her life. They had plenty of time. It would have to be discussed sometime, but for now they were together and it would wait.

  "It sounds wonderful," she said, realizing she'd been silent for some time. He glanced at her and smiled but said nothing. She waved at the lake. "This must be a wonderful place for swimming in the summer," she said. "Can you swim, Martin?"

  "Yes; I won school certificates for the mile, both crawl and breaststroke. You?"

  "I only got my qualifications for the five hundred yard breaststroke and hundred yard crawl." She shrugged. "It pains me to admit it but I never really feel comfortable in water, you know?"

  "It's nothing to be ashamed of, love." He gave her arm a squeeze. "Sometimes, just sometimes, it's down to a trauma suffered during a past life."

  "Yeah? How come?"

  "Reincarnation seems to carry a kind of imprint, which those with the right frame of mind or psychic talent can pick up on.

  "A friend of mine had a real fear of heights. He couldn't even tolerate just looking out of a window at any height in a tall building. It wasn't too important until he got a job which he later discovered involved working in a tenth floor office once a month."

  "Not good," she said sagely, kicking at a stone. It bounced over the ground to plop into the lake.

  "No. He made excuses to put off the dreadful moment when he'd have to go into that office as long as he could, but he got so worried about losing the job he turned to me for help."

  "What did you do?"

  "I got in touch with an expert in regression therapy who took care of him. She regressed him to a previous life as a seaman in early Victorian times. This man was sent up a mast to repair storm damage but the damage was worse than it appeared. There was some kind of accident and he was trapped, suspended by a rope over an awful drop for some time before he could be rescued. That impression stayed with him into his next life."

  "Ouch! I can understand that. Was your friend cured?"

  "Oh yes. Once he understood the reason for his fear, he was able to tackle it with the help of a little hypnotherapy. He's as right as rain, now."

  "Cool!" She looked along her shoulder at him. "Okay, Martin, you now know one of my fears. Fess up! What phobias lurk in your mind?"

  His face took on an introspective look, and suddenly she knew instinctively that he was considering exactly what he should tell her. With a stab of guilt she realized the question of fears had more significance to a psychic than most people.

  "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want, you know," she said softly. "I shouldn't have asked."

  He turned, took her in his arms and kissed her. The breeze tousled their hair and seemed to carry the scent of snow. She held him close and looked into his sea-blue eyes.

  "I don't mind you asking me anything, love," he said softly. "Yes, there are things I fear, which I'll tell you about in good time. For the moment…" He looked away. "I'll put my hand up and admit I'm not one hundred percent comfortable with height either."

  She accepted his diversion from the topic and smiled as she slid her hands inside his coat and cupped his firm butt. "Why so?"

  "I'm not sure," he said with a rueful look. "At least I'm okay in high buildings, unlike my friend." He rocked his hand. "It's steep places, high places without handrails and nice, safe firm ground that I don't like."

  "Noted, lover." She kissed him. "Let's do a deal. I'll never ask you to climb a mountain high if you don't ask me to swim the river deep!"

  "Deal!" he said, and kissed her. They parted a long moment later, and she could feel his arousal pressing against her.

  "Now there's something I'm quite sure I understand," she whispered.

  * * * *

  Some distance along the shore was a boathouse and a jetty. They made their way hand-in-hand toward it, of one mind and purpose.

  Martin pushed open the door and peered inside. An odor of damp and pondweed met their noses, the smell dissipating as the breeze blew through the semi-enclosed structure. Beyond the open end lay the lake, cold and gray-blue in the afternoon light. A yacht was drawn up to the short boardwalk with a green canvas cover stretched over it and pegged down. With a glance back at the resort buildings in the distance he drew her inside and pushed the door closed.

  She melted in his arms as he embraced her, her warm breath soft on his skin as she kissed his throat. Sliding his hands inside her coat, he reached down to cup and squeeze her firm butt. Claudia leaned back against the wall and brought her legs up to entwine them about his waist.

  "I could get used to this!" she murmured.

  "Mmm, so could I!" he said, kissing her.

  She wrapped her arms around his neck and held him close as he ran his hands over her body, feeling the supple play and give of her breasts under her heavy sweatshirt. His cock was tight inside his pants and
the sensation was growing more uncomfortable by the second.

  "Feel the need for release, lover?" she whispered in his ear.

  "I do!" he replied with a soft moan.

  "Let me down and I'll give you a blow," she said, unwrapping her arms and lowering her legs.

  His cock gave an extra hard twitch at her words and he released his hold. Standing, she turned him around until they'd exchanged positions and he now stood with his back to the wall. Kneeling, she unzipped his denims and slipped her hand inside the inviting gap. He felt her long fingers seeking for his cock; her touch was cold but it added an extra little thrill which made him gasp.

  "Martin?" He blinked and looked down at her. She wore a mischievous smile. "This time I'm not going to spit!"

  "That's…wonderful!" he managed to say, and she winked and drew his cock from inside his pants. Her fingers closed around it and drew back his foreskin with a practiced motion. He felt the first delicate touch of her tongue-tip on the extreme end of his cock, a gentle dab as she licked away the trickle of pre-cum that emerged as the pressure came off it.

  Then she engulfed him in a way that had thrilled him since she'd first done it for him in New York, only days back but seemingly a lifetime ago. Her lips enclosed his shaft and he could feel her tongue running all over and around it.

  *

  Martin's manhood filled her mouth, touching the back of her throat. His taste, his scent filled her mind, and she held his butt with both hands as she worked to pleasure him. She cast a glance upwards and his face was a picture of sensual enjoyment. His eyes were half closed, two slits of bright blue that looked down at her and he smiled and caressed her hair. Her pussy surged with warmth.

  She bobbed her head and sucked him with a gentle rhythm, drawing her teeth over his rigid shaft, scraping his skin and making him shiver convulsively. The heavy purple head throbbed in her mouth, and she could taste the bittersweet pre-cum on her lips and tongue. There was no one around; she could take her time and pleasure her man as much as he—or she—could stand.

  And they were safe for each other. It had taken a mere couple of days to be tested and know that for sure. He’d been surprised at the speed with which the results had come through until she’d reminded him they were in New York…